Old Spuds

I left it too long
To put manners on these potatoes,
To take them in hand.
Now they’re looking at me sideways,
Frontways, everyways,
From the bottom of the bag.
Three hundred crossed eyes
On thirty puddos.
With care and a knife
I dig a little deep
Undercutting the tired skin.
Bitter wet,
Sharp smelling,
Drying white, tight on my hands.
The purple buds
Show no root or reason
In the flesh, featureless.
The mash will be delicious
But terminal.